


Those Seasons Made Up And Undone

by Nevanna



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Magical Bondage, Manipulation, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevanna/pseuds/Nevanna
Summary: This is Alex's last year as a squire, as he turns away from the past.





	Those Seasons Made Up And Undone

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the [Tortall Timeline](http://www.tamora-pierce.net/series-extra/tortall-timeline/) for providing a framework for this story, and, as always, to Elle for letting me text her random ideas. The title is from "Bird Song" by the Wailin' Jennys.

**Winter**

A beautifully crafted chess set rests upon a shelf above Duke Roger’s desk. The pieces are fashioned to resemble dragons, basilisks, and other creatures that Alex has only heard about in old stories. It is easier to concentrate on the details of their flanks and feathers than it is to look at the Duke’s face, which is made of flesh and blood but is every bit as finely carved.

“Perhaps I’ll let you do more than look at some point,” Roger says, and when Alex frowns, “At those pieces, that is. You seem like a man in search of a worthy opponent.”

“More often than not, sir,” Alex agrees, uncomfortably unsure of why he’s here in the first place.

“That said, I did not, in fact, summon you here today for a game of chess. I would like to offer you something much more significant.” Roger folds his hands on his desk. “Now that I have settled at Court, I find myself in need of a squire to aid me, and I think that it should be you. What do you say?”

Instead of an answer, Alex’s mind whirls with questions. He barely knows which one to ask first. “With all due respect, wouldn’t Your Grace prefer someone who shares a capacity for…”

“For magic?” Roger interrupts him gently. “If I wanted such a person, I would ask him. You’re observant, intelligent, an exceptional swordsman, and unwilling to back away from a challenge, all of which are qualities that I admire. Nor should you be concerned that only a year remains before your Ordeal of Knighthood,” he adds, even as that very thought occurs to Alex. “I believe that I can teach you a great deal, even in that short amount of time. I’ve spoken to Duke Gareth, and to my uncle the king, and they feel the same way. But I must know: how do _you_ feel?”

It’s an unexpectedly intimate question, but Alex still only hesitates for a moment before answering: “I’m honored to accept your offer, sir.”

“Splendid.” Roger grins broadly. “My service will make extraordinary demands of you, but I can promise you even more extraordinary rewards.”

On the way to dinner that night, Alex tells his friends everything… well, _nearly_ everything. Gary thumps him on the shoulder, almost hard enough to bruise, and the other boys offer equally enthusiastic congratulations… with one exception. 

“Alan?” Jonathan frowns at the young redhead, who has gone unusually quiet. “Aren’t you happy for Alex?”

Alan bites his lip. “Of course I am.” Can the others hear the lie in those words? Does Alan – with his Gift and his secrets and his remarkable refusal to let _anybody_ get the better of him – wish that Roger had chosen _him_ instead? “You might be on your way to greatness, but don’t forget your friends, all right?” He reaches out and clasps Alex’s hand. “We’ll still be here if you need us.”

**Spring**

Alex is immersed in the set of figures that he’s been trying to solve, and barely hears the opening of the door that separates his room from Roger’s. “I didn’t think I’d find you here,” his knight-master remarks.

Alex scratches one number from his parchment and writes in another. “This is my last assignment of the night.”

“All of your friends have long since left the palace grounds,” Roger says. “They ought to have waited for you, don’t you think?”

Alex looks up. “ _All_ of them?”

“Gary, Raoul, Alan, Prince Jonathan… have I forgotten anybody? No?” Roger’s fingertips brush the back of Alex’s neck. “Perhaps I’ve misread the situation, then.”

Alex’s hand tightens on his pen. “You haven’t, sir.” This isn’t the only time that his friends have gone into the city without him. He’s usually too busy assisting or talking with Roger, sometimes discussing this or that philosophical argument, and sometimes listening to stories of his travels… but it still would have been nice to be _invited_ on some of those outings. He reminds himself that he will be a knight in a few months, and that the security and glory of his kingdom matter more than schoolyard misunderstandings.

“Alliances change,” Roger says. “Sometimes in ways that we choose, and sometimes… not.” His hand moves to Alex’s shoulder, stroking almost rhythmically. “I’m sure that, in time, Jon and the others will remember how fortunate they are to have you among them. Until then, you and I shall have to find other ways to occupy ourselves.”

Alex stands up and pushes his paper aside. “Such as what?”

**Summer**

“Didn’t I tell you once that you would learn a lot?” Roger asks, his usually smooth voice fraying at the edges as he withdraws himself from Alex’s mouth and runs one large, careful hand over his squire’s head. 

Only moments earlier, both of those hands had twined themselves in Alex’s hair as words of praise and encouragement ran together into a loud, ragged moan of release. As Roger tugs him up into a kiss, Alex allows himself a tiny smile and thinks, not for the first time, _I did that to him._

“Lie back, now,” Roger orders. “Yes, just like that. I want to return the pleasure that you’ve given me… that is, if you think that you can handle what I have in mind.”

“And I thought Your Grace knew me from the inside out,” Alex says, more boldly than he usually dares. “I can handle anything that you give me.”

Roger leans over him. “I hoped that you would say that.” His fingers move deliberately across Alex’s bare chest, as if they’re writing something. Each stroke leaves behind invisible trails of warmth. “Trust me,” he whispers, and chants something under his breath. Intricate lines of orange light flare for a moment on Alex’s skin, and in the next instant, his arms and legs have gone as heavy as stone. 

A cry rises in his throat as his body – which he has trained and honed every day for the last seven years and more – refuses to obey him, but Roger covers the noise with another kiss. “You can still speak,” he murmurs reassuringly. “You can stop this… if that’s truly what you want. You could also let me touch you and taste you here… and here…” Light, teasing strokes accompany the words, and although Alex can’t even twitch his legs, he feels the stirring between them. “And everywhere else.” Roger’s fingers dance up and down Alex’s thighs, and back up again, lingering too briefly where he so painfully wants them, even as he stops himself from begging. “You don’t have to worry about making the right moves or the wrong choices. You can be _still_ , while I make you open and ready, and when I sheath myself inside you, all you have to do is trust, and relax, and _feel_.” Roger lifts his hands. “Or I could undo the spell now, and leave you to yourself.”

Alex lets out another cry, of desperation this time. He’s never been this hard in his life. “No, do it, do it all, _please_ ,” he whines, long past embarrassment, and only when he adds, “my lord,” does Roger fulfill his promises.

When his arms and legs return to normal, afterward, Alex is so limp and sated that he barely notices the change. Roger kisses his closed eyelids, traces slow circles on his shoulder, and tells him how very good he’s been.

**Autumn**

A hand on his shoulder jolts Alex out of sleep, and once his heart stops racing, he realizes that he was slumped over a table in the library, with a book of maps open in front of him. One of the palace teachers is standing over him, his expression unreadable beneath a shaggy beard. “Do you imagine that the royal cartographers intended their work to be used as a pillow?”

“No, Sir Myles,” Alex replies. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the first youth to nod off in this corner,” Sir Myles continues in the same mild tone. “And you’ve certainly not made a habit of it, in all the years that I’ve known you.”

“I’ll probably have even less time to sleep during a battle,” Alex points out. “Surely you recall what that’s like.” Privately, he has his doubts, considering how long Myles has been buried in his own books. All the same, despite his fondness for wine and obscure facts, Myles’ mind is still sharp, and the king and queen generally listen to and believe him.

“Is it your upcoming Ordeal keeping you awake, then?” Myles asks. “That, I certainly _do_ remember. Your friends must be dealing with similar fears; do you think it would help to talk to them?” There’s something familiar about that sentiment, and it’s true enough that Alex often wakes up sweating and trembling, chased by terrifying dreams that he can’t quite remember. Before he can respond, however, Myles continues, “Or perhaps Duke Roger is demanding too much of you.”

“I thought that it was chivalrous to accept the demands that others place on us.” Alex remarks. “Regardless of our personal feelings.” The previous night found him on his hands and knees, with the edge of a dagger under his chin and Roger’s voice in his ear, whispering, _A true knight is this close to death all the time,_ as each wave of arousal brought its own kind of agony. As the memory surfaces, Alex finds it difficult to look Myles in the eye. “And he asks for nothing that I’m not willing to give.”

When he finally glances up, he sees that Myles’ usually amiable face is pinched with worry. “Can you tell me, truthfully, whether you’re all right?”

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise, sir? Or has one of the other boys? Was it Trebond?” The telltale could just as easily have been Raoul, who caught Alex sleepwalking again last week, or Geoffrey of Meron, the page most likely to become his squire after Midwinter. But it’s Alan who, although he does his best to hide it, has disliked Roger from the beginning. What does he believe, or suspect, and _why_?

 _He could ruin everything._ The words form in Alex’s mind as clearly as if somebody spoke them in his ear.

“I am here because I choose to be,” Myles is saying. “Please don’t take that out on Alan or anybody else.”

“I understand,” Alex says. That, at least, is partly true. “If you’ll pardon me, sir, I’d like to return to my work.” He’s hoping to spend some time on the archery range before dinner: the cool, clear weather – as clear as the future he’s been promised – has been perfect for outdoor practice. “I’ll try to keep my eyes open.”

“I hope that you do,” Myles says quietly, and leaves without another word.

Alex turns another page, still uneasy, but certain that Roger will know what to do. He always knows.


End file.
